


be good

by valety



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Freeform, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Misgendering, Nonbinary Character, POV Second Person, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5465450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/pseuds/valety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chara's good at smiling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	be good

**Author's Note:**

> this fic consists almost entirely of headcanons based on personal experience. I apologize if it comes across as ooc. I have a tendency to project my issues onto chara and so this is more of a vent fic than anything else
> 
> MAJOR WARNINGS for misgendering and gender dysphoria, as almost the entirety of this fic has chara being gendered as female by others and they themselves are written as being unsure of gender in general. warning for gender essentialism as well (just in case) because chara comes to associate certain things with femininity that I know perfectly well aren't accurate
> 
> additional warnings for child abuse, anxiety and anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation, self-harm, dissociation, brief alcohol use by a minor, and brief ableist language. there's probably some other stuff too but those are the only ones I can think of at the moment

When you were very small:

Dresses made of taffeta and crinoline. Patent-leather shoes that don't quite fit, pinching your heels and toes. Sharp-toothed combs that drag through your red-brown hair. Sprays that stink, powders and creams that make you itch. There, your mother says. Finally you look presentable.

When you look in the mirror, you can't even recognize yourself. Your clothing feels like a costume, your makeup like a mask.

You didn't fight me for once, your mother says. Thank god. Now be quiet and be a good girl.

You smile and tell her yes, because that is what a Good Girl does, and tonight you are going to be a Good Girl, even if the way she says that makes you feel a little nervous.

Let's go, _____, your mother says. We're late.

She takes your hand in hers, and maybe she takes it a little bit too roughly, maybe her nails are digging into your skin a little bit, but you know better than to flinch or pull away. A little pinch is nothing, especially not compared to what she'd do if you tried to take your hand back.

Dinner that evening is exactly the same as all the other dinners you've ever been to. You're not allowed to fidget, you're not allowed to frown, and so you smile at the guests the way you've been told to over and over again, careful to stay put and be good. You're squirming under your skin the entire time, as though your blood itself wants to break free and dance across the table.

The food tastes like dirt. You choke it down while making conversation with whoever that is across from you. You don't know them. You don't know _any_ of these people. But tonight you are a Good Girl, and you will do as your mother says, and your mother says to be charming. You put on your cute face, you giggle at their jokes, you say whatever pops into your mind about school and piano lessons and your made-up friends, and you _are_ charming, with your little pink dress (you hate pink you've always hated pink) and Mary-Jane shoes with bows (you can't run or climb in these what good are they). 

When your mother suggests that you play something for everyone, you obey. You are good. You are a Good Girl.

(At least, you _want_ to be. Maybe if you can convince the rest of them, you'll start believing it yourself. For now, all you can do is try.)

You sit down at the piano and touch the keys. They feel cold under your fingers. The piano had been your friend once, but it's been a long, long time since you've played for yourself. You know _how_ to play, of course, but...well, you can't worry about that now. Your mother is entertaining her friends, and you've been called to help, because she needs you. You are a Good Girl and you can't afford to fail, not if it will make your mother angry.

(Please don't let her be angry.)

You play. You have to do so from memory, your music having been removed from the piano for the party - it looks messy, your mother had said - and if you take the time to go and look for it, your mother will be unhappy.

At first you do all right. It's a simple enough tune. But your fingers are stiff and clumsy and nothing flows the way it should, and eventually, they slip. You miss a note, and then your mind goes blank. Your hands refuse to move and the song comes to an abrupt end. You are left frozen at the piano, hands hovering uselessly above the keyboard. You don't want to stand up, not until you can fix this, but you don't know what to do, you don't know how to end the song, not when you've already ruined it, ruined _everything,_ _ruined ruined ruined ruined_ -

You sit there in horrible, suffocating silence, struggling to breathe, until finally the crowd gathered behind you breaks out into awkward laughter.

"She's shy," your mother says by means of apology, but her voice seems blurry, somehow, as though she's speaking through glass.

You slide off the bench. You feel like you might throw up, but you can't, you're not allowed.

As you return to your place at the table, you meet her eyes by mistake. You see a flash of anger, too quick for anyone else to notice, just sharp enough to cut. You already know that you're going to pay for this later.

You tried to be the Good Girl and you failed. The problem, you think, is that it's something you were never meant to be.

Still, your smile never falters.

* * *

You are small. You are bigger than before, but still a child. Too small to count as a proper human being yet, you think.

It's another party, and once again, you are here. After how badly you'd messed up last time (god, the memory alone makes you feel as though you're rotting inside), your mother knows better than to ask you to play in front of others. Still, she needs to show you off, to demonstrate how perfect you've become under her guidance, and so she expects you to be present, even if she no longer trusts you. Friends, coworkers, whoever these people are, they're _important,_ and so you owe it to her to put on a darling little smile and be an adorable crowd-pleaser.

You need to learn how to behave in such circles, she'd told you once, but you still don't know what that means. No one's ever bothered to explain it to you. It doesn't feel as though you're being taught anything so much as being trotted out like a little dog to be cooed over by strangers. Then again, maybe that _is_ what you're meant to be learning. Maybe this is all you'll ever have to look forward to, as a girl growing up in this kind of family and this kind of world.

At least you're not alone this time. There are other children present for once, most of them looking just as uncomfortable in their frilly gowns and ribbons as you feel in yours. You can't help but feel a flush of pride when you see how they squirm and fuss. Unlike them, you're able to hide your discomfort.

She gets straight As, your mother says when she introduces you, as though grades mean anything in elementary school. She's taking her piano exam in spring. Isn't she beautiful? I'm so proud of her.

Your stomach cramps against your will. A dull burn rises in your chest. Her every word seems to carry a physical weight, and they fall like stones, settling one by one somewhere around your shoulders, dragging you down, down, down. Still, you keep your back straight, your face still. Your face is a mask. Your smile is plastic. You know that it's empty, but no one will care. No one ever has.

_This is your future,_ your mind whispers. _This is what you're learning, if you're learning anything at all._ You will smile and be cute, wrapped in endless ruffles and lipstick and hairspray, and you will never, ever, ever be able to live up to your mother's boasts, because sooner or later you will panic and freeze again. You won't be able to finish the song, you'll get a B instead of an A, you'll have to redo the exam, you'll become ugly, you'll become bad. Maybe you're _already_ ugly, maybe you're _already_ bad, maybe you _can't_ be a Good Girl, not if this is what that means. You can't be good at all, you can't be a...

Stop. Stop. Breathe. Smile.

The little girl in lace clinging to her father from across the way gives you a look that's dangerously close to pity. 

She's such a credit to me, your mother says. She squeezes. Polished, painted nails dig into your skin. A reminder. You're not allowed to freeze, not here, not now, not ever. Your face aches from the memory of the last mistake you'd made, and so you smile.  She likes you better when you smile; she goes easier on you when you smile.

You smile, you giggle, you're a cute little girl, she's proud of you, you're a credit to her. 

* * *

You are older. Old enough by now to be so, so tired of it all. Young enough to still try and fake it, because you know what will happen if you don't.

This time it's a family reunion. Hordes of aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents all together in a hotel ballroom, all of them seeking to one-up each other. You can hear them gossiping about family estates and private schools and riding lessons. You think of your own duplex in the suburbs; the most average house imaginable. Empty yet overflowing with the illusion of luxury. You wonder what your mother is telling them. You can only fool the world with dresses and jewelry and _keeping up appearances_  for so long.

Your ulcer gnaws at your stomach.

(What kind of child gets an ulcer, your mother had said. You wouldn't be so stressed if you just studied more, practiced more, worked more. Then school would be easy, then exams would be easy, then life would be easy. This is your own fault. Stop acting like it's mine. Stop blaming me for your mistakes.)

You're wearing yet another dress. Your face is caked in makeup. Your hair is in curls. You haven't changed at all since she first started dressing you up like this, trying to convince everyone that you had turned out Right despite everything. But now that you're older, there's even more you have to deal with; your ears have been bored so that you can wear earrings, a silver necklace sits around your throat like a collar, your shoes now have the beginning of heels.

You feel the weight of it all dragging you down, and suddenly, a thought occurs to you:  _I don't like this._

Well. That's something new.

How long have you felt this way? Didn't most girls _like_ this sort of thing? Dresses and parties and makeup? 

You, though - you have never, ever enjoyed this. All this posing, all this primness. It has been your cage. So what did that say about you?

Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if you'd just had a _choice._ You have never, ever had a choice. There have been too many bruises hidden where no one can see them, too many invisible scars that no one will ever believe, too many threats made to keep you in line. Don't embarrass me, _____. Be a Good Girl.

You can feel the heat beginning to rise under your skin. You want so badly to let it out. Your skin itches; you curl your fingers into fists. You can't scratch yourself, not in public.

You are young, but nobody gives you so much as a second glance when you snatch up a glass of red wine from a nearby table. You sniff it. It's the kind of wine your mother likes, you think - it smells the same, at least.

She wants you to be all that she could never manage to be. She wants you to take responsibility for all the mistakes in her life that never let her get where she wanted to be. You need to do what she wants. You need to be like her. 

You take a sip and your mouth puckers. It's bitter. You can't imagine anybody ever drinking this for fun, but you tip back the glass and swallow the whole thing down.

The lightheadedness comes quickly. For a moment, you are worried that you will be sick, but you can't be sick here, not in front of the others. Getting sick is not allowed. What will they think of you? 

You stumble outside into the hotel courtyard. No one stops you.

The nausea seems to pass when the fresh air hits you, but you don't want to go back, not just yet. 

You see a bed of golden flowers.They have always been your favourites, and so you settle down among them, stretching yourself out in the soil. 

The yellow petals brush against your skin, the kindest touch you've felt in ages, and you think that it wouldn't be so bad to go to sleep like this.

You lay there for a long, long time, until the clouds are covering the moon and you can no longer see the stars. Only then do you recall, in your bleary state of mind, that you have somewhere else you're meant to be.

You re-enter the ballroom with flushed cheeks and a gown covered in dirt. You're swaying as you walk. When your mother's furious gaze falls on you from across the room, you shoot her your most winning smile, cold as cold can be. 

* * *

You are even older, the oldest you have ever been, and you are changing for yet another event when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror.

You see an alien, and for a moment, you forget to breathe. 

The last time you'd really looked at yourself, you'd been flat. You'd been bony. You'd been a kid. Nothing about you had really been a boy _or_ a girl - no muscles, no curves. For a time, there'd actually been a kind of comfort in being nothing in particular, but now you can see the slight of your breasts, the slight shape of your hips.

Your body has grown in ways you never permitted it to, and now, you look like a Her. You look like a Girl.

You really _have_ stopped breathing. You're feeling faint and your chest is fit to burst. The hands clutching your new dress are shaking. Your head begins to shake as well. No. No. No.

If you wear this dress, then people will see. People will _know._ They'll know what you're supposed to be, what you've been _trying_ to be, and they'll see all the ways in which you've failed, over and over again. There could have been doubt before; you want there to still _be_ doubt. You want a chance to get it wrong, a chance to be forgiven. 

_You_ want to be in doubt. If you had been a boy - _could_  have been a boy - then of course you wouldn't be a girl. Nobody would blame you for messing up so much. Maybe they'd even forgive you. 

But no, you're not a boy. You can't be a boy. You don't know why, exactly, just that _that_ doesn't seem quite right, either. So what are you, then? Are you both? Are you neither?

If you were neither, then maybe you'd be safe. It would just be you. Not what people wanted you to be, not what people needed you to be. No expectations, only you.

Your eyes fall once more to your hips. They're slight, barely noticeable, and yet they mean so much. The heaviest shackles of all. 

But your mother is waiting for you.

You can't think about this right now. There's no time. She told you to get ready and you have to obey.

You close your eyes and pull on the dress. It feels wrong, even before you open your eyes again to see how you look in it.

This time, when you look in the mirror, you see a fraud. You see a doll who's only pretending to be human.

You force yourself to smile. It almost looks real.

* * *

I don't want to go, you tell your mother.

Your throat clenches painfully around your words. You are so, so scared to say this, but you need to at least try. Maybe she'll understand this time. Maybe she'll forgive you.

I don't feel good, you say. 

It doesn't matter, your mother says. If you don't feel good, fake it. All women need to learn that someday. 

Your mind whispers to you, _this is your future, this is who you will become._

I don't want that, you say before you can stop yourself, in a voice so low that you can barely hear yourself.

Quit being a brat, your mother says. And why are you wearing this baggy old thing? Where did you even get this?

She grabs your shirt - a bright green sweater, striped, one you'd bought yourself in secret, one that hides your deformed body - and yanks it over your head. You bite back a scream and try to pull it back down, but she's stronger than you and you don't know how to fight as she rips off your clothes. You try to cross your arms and hide yourself, to hide the evidence. If she can't see it, she won't know what you've done, maybe she'll forgive you.

But she sees you anyway.

What's _this?_ your mother asks, and she tugs at your wrist, turning over your arm. The soft inner skin is lined with bright red scars from where your nails have dragged through your own flesh, setting free the fire bubbling deep inside of you.

I don't know, you say.

You feel the heat of her palm seconds before you even see it coming. You deserved that. It was a stupid thing to say. 

How _dare_ you? your mother says. Do you want other people to see this? Do you want them to think I can't raise a child properly?

No, that's not -

Do you want to die? Is _that_ it?

No, I -

Then why? Is it just for attention?

No. I'm sorry.

Never let me find marks like this on you again. Do you understand? I won't let you embarrass me like this.

I won't. I'm sorry.

Let me see your smile.

Yes. I'm sorry.

Not like that. People will think you've been crying. Smile like a normal person. Now hurry up and get dressed. We're late.

Yes. I'm sorry.

* * *

Somewhere along the line, your despair turns to anger.

* * *

What a pretty little girl!

Thank you, sir. ( _Stupid idiot fool_ )

Oh, what a lovely dress! Did you pick it out yourself, little lady?

My mother did, ma'am. ( _Disgusting vile wretched_ )

You can be so pretty when you try! Why don't you dress up more often?

Yes. It seems you were right. I shall have to continue trying. Won't I? Ha-ha. ( _Ugly ugly ugly_ )

Your words are stilted and robotic. They don't feel like yours at all. 

They're stupid. They're all so stupid. None of them can see you. They see your hair and dress and makeup, but they don't see _you_ , they don't see anything beneath it. They don't see how quickly you'll tear the gown off your body once the evening's over, they don't see how eagerly you'll wipe your face clean when it's time to go to bed. They don't see how wrong this dress is for a person like you. They don't see you flinching when they call you pretty, call you a _girl._  They don't see how painfully those words dig into you these days.

Maybe it wouldn't have mattered so much before, but now it makes you feel disgusting, makes you feel wrong. You never want to hear those words again. You don't want to be a Good Girl anymore. You don't want to be good _or_ a girl. You want to be something, anything else for once. You want to be _yourself._

But none of them care. To them, you have never _been_ yourself. Always, always, you have been a mirror. Others see in you whatever it is they hope to see - the Obedient Daughter, the Model Student, the Virtuoso Pianist, the Doll. Whatever role is most convenient for you to play at the time, that is who you are to them.

Never have they seen you for yourself, and soon, nothing will be left of you. Nothing but the hard, heavy stone of anger sitting deep within your belly. 

You cling to that anger like a life raft. Even when everything else has been stripped away from you, leaving you raw and bleeding, your anger alone will remain. It is the only part of you that remains one-hundred-percent  _you,_  and you need it, you need it, you need it. 

You hate them, every last one of them. None of them care; why should  _you_  care?

None of this is real, you tell yourself. None of this is who you are. It's all just a costume, it's all just a mask, it's all just a character. It's only temporary, it's only for now, it's only to keep them happy, and someday you'll destroy it, someday you'll break away from it all and be reborn as something new.

You just need to hold on until then.

* * *

(But who are you, then? If none of this is real, then _who are you?_ )

* * *

You don't know how old you are anymore. Only that you are so, so tired. Of your body, of your life, of everything. 

You are disgusting. You are wrong. Everything about you, everything about your shape, is damaged and ugly and _not working,_ you are _non-functioning,_ and it's only getting worse and worse by the day. And here you are, standing before a mirror, waiting to be made presentable again when everything about you is filthy and hideous and _cannot be fixed._

You see the dress in your arms and hold the crumpled satin out before you, trying to imagine yourself wearing it. It makes you feel the strangest you have ever felt; your eyes can't seem to focus, not even when you meet your own gaze in the mirror. The edges of the world seem foggy, and though you can hear your mother talking from somewhere behind you, she feels a million miles away.

Somehow, her words reach you anyway.

It's time to do your hair, she says.

Your hair. You think of your hair. It doesn't feel like yours; it seems to belong to your reflection, the fake you, the insubstantial you, the one that everyone prefers.

It's so long now. You have never had it cut. Your mother likes it long. If it's long, she can dress it how she likes. She can make you look pretty.

She places her hands on your head, digging her nails into your scalp.

She is going to do your hair. 

Something inside of you snaps in the quietest possible way.

I have to use the washroom, you say. Once again, your voice is stilted; you are a robot. 

She lets you go. 

Be fast, she says.

You obey.

You grab your pencil case from your desk, and then you run.

You are faster than she is.

You lock yourself in the washroom. The quick, furious clacking of heels follows you down the corridor, and then her fists are raining upon the door. What do you think you're doing? Open this door right now. Listen to me, _____, I am your goddamn mother.

Your hands are shaking as you dig through your pencil case, but then you finally find what you've been looking for. 

You pull out your scissors, raising them to your hair, and you begin to cut.

Long, red-brown locks drift to the floor like feathers. Within moments, your head feels lighter than it's ever been before; nothing is left but choppy, uneven layers that cannot possibly be saved in time for tonight. You begin to laugh. Who would've thought it'd be so  _easy?_

Can't do my hair _now!_ you want to say. None of it is left! And god, if only the rest of it was this simple - you think of scissors, razors, knives, taken to your breasts and hips, getting rid of them forever, leaving only you and nothing else, nothing anyone else can judge you for. Goodbye, Good Girl. Goodbye, _____.

Open this door right now,your mother says. You cannot do this to me. I do not deserve this.

You are laughing,  _laughing,_ because it's funny, it's so fucking funny, how can she be so...! 

She is going to kill you and it's absolutely hilarious because you want to _die_ and you are going to _laugh_ when you finally get to and please, god, let you die, please make it stop, just make everything stop.

You open the door, because she told you to open the door, and some small part of you still feels like they need to be obedient. 

Your mother sends you crashing into the bathtub. Your head slams against the porcelain. You see stars. You think of the party in the hotel and of lying in a bed of golden flowers and staring at the night sky. 

What the hell have you done to your hair? I can't take you anywhere looking like this, your mother says.

You laugh and you laugh and you

I can't believe how ungrateful you are, she says from where she's standing over you. After everything I've done for you, everything I've done to help you _be_ somebody,  _this_ is how you repay me.

You laugh and you laugh and you laugh and you

Stop that, your mother says. You sound demonic. Is that it, _____? Are you a demon? Or are you just psychotic?

You laugh and you laugh and you laugh and you laugh and you

You're psychotic. Stay put. I'm calling the police.

You don't know where she goes after that, only that she leaves you lying there on the floor, still half-dressed in an undershirt and tights, laughing harder than you've ever laughed before. It's only when you bring your hands to your face, pressing them to your starstruck eyes, that you even realize you are crying.

* * *

You don't wait for her. You _won't_ wait for her. Your hair is gone, she can't touch it anymore, but hair alone is not enough. You won't let her touch _any_ of you anymore. You won't play along anymore, letting her mold you as she wills, letting her call you what she likes, letting her treat you like a puppet. You won't be _anyone's_ puppet. Nobody gets to touch you ever, ever again.

You are not a Good Girl. You are a demon, just like she said. You are nothing, you are _you,_ you are yourself, you are your own, and everybody else's assumptions and expectations can go straight to hell.

For once, you don't obey. You don't stay put. Instead, you move.

You go to your room and pull on your sweater, the one you'd managed to salvage from the garbage can after she'd tried to throw it away. Aside from your anger, it's the only thing you have that's really yours. It shields you from the prying eyes of others, keeping you safer than she ever has. It's all you need anymore in this useless world. 

The drop from your window is not enough to kill you.

You wind up standing in the street, chest heaving. head twisting frantically as you try to think of where to go.

It's evening. The sun is setting, turning the whole world golden with its light.

There's nowhere you _can_ go. There's nowhere left that's safe. You hate them all, every last one of them. They all want to use you. They all want you to be something else. They all want to give you a name when you have never, ever, asked for a name.

If there's nowhere you can go, then you will go nowhere.

There, in the distance. On the gold-painted horizon.

There is a mountain. Legends say that those who climb the mountain never return.


End file.
